Los Santos: City of Saints and Sinners
by Munga wa vita
Summary: What happens when you cross a sociopathic Korean Hitman, an ambitious gangbanger with a thirst for power, a wayward mercenary, a trouble ex-soldier, a black nationalist fresh out of prison and a biker with dark past? Chaos...Pure, sweet and beautiful chaos. Welcome to Los Santos, Murder Capitol of America.


_Future Events_

* * *

 _While seeking revenge, remember to dig two graves. One for your enemy and one for yourself._

Kernfield, San Andreas

Slamming thru the doors of a bar, a scraggy, ginger hair white man appeared, fell to the ground spilling his inner contents onto the curbside. It was to clear to anyone that the man was shitfaced drunk, from his unbuttoned short-sleeve shirt revealing an alcohol stained white tank top, and dirty blue jeans. As the poor man continued to pour out his inners, the bar's door creaks open once more.

"Damn cousin, if I had known you were such a lightweight, I wouldn't have brought ya here!" A voice chuckled. Appearing from the doorway, a shaved-head man of Caucasian descent step out into the cool night, joining his fallen partner. The man wore a pair of blue jeans and a white tank top, that barely covered a large swastika on his chest, on his left arm the phrase WHITE POWER italicized and on the right arm was an image of Odin.

"Fuck You, Dave!" The downed Aryan member called. He was to fuck up to be dealing with his older cousin's antics. Laughing at younger man's dilemma, Dave preceded to light a cigarette and let loose of a cloud of smoke in a single puff.

With his back turn and his cousin too busy puking, both men were unaware of two people dressed in all-black walking up to them. The only thing that distinguishes the two of them from each other, was their skin color that would occasionally show; one white and the other black. But it was 1 o'clock morning, and the street lamps were barely working. The only real visible light was the one from the Bar's Name Sign.

"Hey, brother you got a minute?" A voice called from behind.

"Wha.." CRACK...CRACK

The sound of a wooden bat connecting with two human head filled the night air, for a single second, followed by a distinct thudding sound, signaling that both bodies had collided with the concrete ground.

"Yo J, you figure they dead, cuz?" One of the assailants asked. Standing over the down Aryans, the figure identified as J, kick the down Aryan eliciting a harsh moan from the man.

"Well, I guess solved that mystery." J deadpan, "now call for the van D."

D lift up his ski mask and let loose a loud, ear-piercing whistle. The sound of van's engine igniting came back in response. As the van pulled, both men began loading the bodies of two skinheads.

###

Couple hours later

Unknown location

"Wake up motherfuckers!" A familiar voice called, jolting Dave's consciousness awake. His body felt numb and heavy, as he struggles to open his eyes. Suddenly his numb body was instantly freezing cold and wet, courtesy of the emptied bucket.

"What the fuck!?" Jerking his hand upward, only to feel resistance. Blinking several times, as his vision came back to him, he saw that he was handcuffed, and there was a chain that wraps around the middle section, and connect it to the floor. Tugging on them again, he struggles to break the break free. The whole time unaware of the three men standing in front of him.

"Tugged all you want cuz, but dat shit ain't coming apart, bitch!" One of the figures said. Snapping his head up, at the sound of a voice. Looking at his captors, he identified that there only seem to be three of them. They had on ski masks to cover up their faces, accompanied by all-black, combat suits, and boots. The two in the back both carried what military grade assault-rifles, couldn't tell what the makes were.

"Do you assholes know who the fuck I am, huh?"

"Yea, we do know who are." The figure speaking began, slowly pacing thr floor back in forth.

"Your name is David Fletch, an Aryan Vanguard enforcer and former AOD Brother" One of his captors commented.

"Then you must know that yall fuck up, by snatching me? Whoever, the fuck you fags are? " Dave snarled, as he glared at each of the men.

"Oh don't you remember me, Brother." Spitting out the words like they venom. The man took off the ski mask, to reveal a ragged, worn out face of a white male, with long disheveled dirty blond hair, paired with a matching beard. The most distinctive feature about him was a partially covered scar that ran diagonally down the side of his head.

Staring at the exposed face, confusion covered his face, then shock instantly swept over him as recognition set in. Finally, rage appeared coloring his face red like blood.

"YOU!" Dave barely got out, before he took a hook to his jaw. Leaving him daze, with a possible dislocated jaw.

"Shut it!" The speaker turned towards the others, making some kind of hand motions that only they understood. The other two exited the room, but promptly return, with the beaten up body of the other Aryan.

"Charles!" The Aryan thought, straining against the chains that bound him. But his struggle was only rewarded with another jab to the face, resulting in a broken nose this time.

Dragging the body in front of him, they drop him on to the cold ground with a resounding thud. Taking a kneel, the speaker reached down to the limp body, grabbing a handful of hair, he lifted Charles' head up. His face looked like a blown-up balloon, with both eyes swollen shut, his once pale white skin, now bright red with a black and blue patch on it. Blood drip from his mouth, indicating internal wounds.

Reaching behind his back, the speaker brought forth a standard hunting knife. Before Dave could utter a single word. That very knife slid deep into the younger skinhead's neck, then withdrawing it. As the man watches his younger brother be so effortless dispatch, he felt a scream threatening to come out. But that was silenced by a blow to head from the speaker's accomplice.

"Don't worry, we won't keep ya two separate for long." The figure producing the very knife that killed his brother, the red ichor still dripping from it.

* * *

Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot.

El Salvador

The current situation and environment could only be described in two words… Living Chaos. The streets were filled with both There were bodies strewn across the street. Most were riddled with bullet holes and others were burnt to a crisp due to the raging fire that was consuming many homes, which layered the air with the smell of burnt flesh. Other bodies were torn apart from either gunfire or from the random shrapnel pieces that projected from the grenades that had been thrown. Cars were flipped over, houses on fire or blown to pieces, the air dense with smoke, from the various rampant fires, casting a dreary, dark gloom over the street.

Throughout desolated street, and among the dead bodies and wreckage, sounds of gunfire could be heard. While, not as pervasive as it started out, there were a still a few stragglers who intentions to kill were still going strong, despite the rising casualty list. As such, the streets continued to run red with the blood of both law enforcement, gangbangers and cartel hitmen.

Amongst the hellish warzone cries for help called out into the air, many would go unanswered. However, for one individual the loudest sound was not the cry of pain, or the constant gunshots or even the explosions that occasionally went off, causing tremors in the ground. No, it was the constant ringing in his ears that drowned out everything else.

Perched against a flipped over wreck car, the said individual was a young light-skin African-American man. Based on the length of his body, he might have stood at 5 ft 11 and had a built form, belaying the fact that the young man played football. He had on a green and white striped shirt that was once had a pristine and clean state. Now was covered in dirt and blood and to go with were a pair of dirty, torn blue jeans and white sneakers that were just as filthy as the rest of his clothes. The young man observed his surrounding in a state of stupor, not truly registering everything that was going on, and what had happened.

Glazing down, the person took notice of two things that stood out in his mind. The cold, empty Glock in his right hand and the blood-stained left hand, that was attempting to cover the bullet hole in the right side.

"Shit!" He thought to himself, clenching his empty gun harder as if it would make the bullet wound magically go away. He had three busted ribs, a gunshot wound, a fractured forearm, a dislocated shoulder and he was losing lots of blood… "Shit!"

He was dying..slowly and painfully. Thinking about the reason for why he was here and who was trying to ki… His thoughts interrupted by a violent cough that sent blood and spittle from his mouth. Following sudden coughs, was an equally vicious wave of intense chest pains. With the taste of copper filling his mouth, he found it was getting hard to breathe and it seemed his vision was fading in and out slowly too.

This was how he was gonna die, in this shit hole of a place, surrounded by waves of enemies and no allies in sight. And to think that he was so close to getting that basta…

The sound of feet scraping against concrete, catching his attention. Looking up his eyes met the cold, barrel end of some type of handgun. The owner of the gun, was none other than Rámon the asshole that shot him, and it seems that he too was wounded, but it was hard to tell how badly, due to the inconsistency of his blurry vision.

One thing that did stand out to the young man was the bright blue bandana wrap around Ramon's wrist. Letting a deep but painful sigh, the young man look up at his soon to be killer and glared with as much hatred and venom as he could possibly muster up. If he was gonna die, then he might as well go out with pride.

BAM BAM BAM

Closing his eyes out of instinct, he kept them shut until the sound of a body, not his hit the ground caught his attention. Opening his eyes, he saw the blurry image of his would-be killer lying dead in front of him.

"Ha, you think, I would allow you to die like this, amigo?" A second figure step into his view, it was even harder to make out this person. His vision was finally fading, everything was going dark and it seems like his sense of hearing was going with.

Watching the wound young man, slowly slump over from loss of blood and exhaustion. The newcomer let out a sigh. Stooping down, he slowly picked up the young man, placed him over his shoulder and began to walk. "Dios mios! You're a heavy one, amigo!?" The unknown saver chuckled. Unaware, of another figure appearing from the side, limping towards in his direction, with a revolver pointed at his head.

BAM BAM BAM

Standing to the left of him, he saw a woman of Salvadoran descent, firing three shots, that easily dropped the already dying cholo, the man continue without missing a single step. "Don't you worry boy, you rest up now and when you wake up, we'll continue what we came here for," he said.

* * *

"Murderers are not monsters, they're men. And that's the most frightening thing about them."

Vespucci Beach

Ring...Ring...Rin...

Click!... Hello?

"il-i kkeutnassseubnikka?"

( Is the job finish?)

A frustrated sigh escapes his lips… "Look, I know you were born in the motherland and like showing off your skill in speaking the native tongue. But we are not in Korea anymore, we are in America, so speak English!"

"Is the job done !? The gangster chuckle at the anger in the voice, before looking around the bar. It looks like an explosion of chaos and gore went off in the building. There were body parts strewn all over the room, with guts hanging from the ceiling fans it was one big mess. Most of the bodies were filled with lead, some were missing heads, others were torn in half, and one had… one had a pool stick stuck in him.

The crazed hitman smirk at that one in particular, due to it being an interesting experience. However, one of the "corpses" seem to move slightly, in fact, if one listened hard enough, they could hear ragged breathing of a man holding on to dear life. Actually, make that two.

The second "corpse" struggle to stand, so it took a while before it could fully stand, though its legs wobble as if they would give out at any moment. Most of his clothes were torn and covered in blood. The man looks Mexican, but was actually of Salvadoran descent, but honestly who cares what he was. They all scream the same…

"Pinche Pendeja!" He spat up blood, saying his last curse. A dark smile came to the hitman's face. "Let me call you back Cho," Hanging up the phone. He pulled out a 4-inch long serrated blade, and faster than the fuck up cholo could react, Johnny had crossed the distance faster than the eye could see. Stabbing the rusted serrated blade 4 inches deep into his stomach, but that only served to cause him more pain.

No, it was when he ripped the blade out and pulling most of his guts and innards out with it. Johnny allowed a twisted smile spread across his face. Enjoying seeing the man in pain and dying slowly. Then he turned back to the first corpse that he saw..

The living corpse was a middle-aged, fat man, that looked like he might have been half-white and half-Salvadoran in him. He had on a torn white tank top and a pair of bloody jeans. He was sitting on his ass, leaning against a turned over table for support. The two things that stood out about the man was the black and bold "MB13" tattoo on his bald head, and the 7in long gash across his stomach that his hands were barely holding together to keep guts from spilling out of.

The man name was unimportant, he just some random member of Vespucci Homicidal, one of the small Marabunta cliques started to appear in Vespucci.

The gang was relatively small, that held at the most 50 or 60. However, that number had been steadily declining due to the inside ass-whooping that he and the Kkangpae had been putting on them. The Maras thought they could do whatever they want, step on anyone's toes and not face any consequences for their actions.

That was not acceptable. Despite the fact that they were affiliated with a much bigger MB set It still unacceptable for the subset gang to be moving in on Little Seoul. As such he was called in to clean house, and clean the house he did.

He slowly strode over to the wounded half-breed, slowly pulling out a serrated combat knife from inside his jacket. Upon reaching the dying man, he couched down in front of the dying cholo. "Wow wee, and here I thought you Mara-Bitches were a bunch gutless punks, but I'll be damn. Not only are You're still awake, but you also got plenty of guts!" The Korean assassin chuckle as he pokes the knife into the nameless cholo's exposed intestines. Causing the man to writhe in pain

"Fuck...You...Gook!" The Mara gang member coughed, spewing out blood in between each word."My pe...peo...people will...get you!" Struggling to speak, while glaring at his killer. Responding with a demented smile, the crazed killer pulled the knife from the man's stomach, and deliberately dragged it slowly across the man's leg, before plunging it deep into him. Eliciting a high pitch scream that slowly turns into a soft whimper.

"Oh, I hope they do!"For the next fifteen minutes all that could be heard by anyone walking past the closed bar was the screams of a dying man...not that there was anybody around to hear him scream.

The door to the bar open, revealing a 5'9" male of Korean descent with a slight yellowish-tan skin and slicked back hair wearing a white button up, covered by a gray suit jacket, a pair of dark gray slacks and pair of black dress shoes.

Wiping the last trace of blood and flesh from his blade, he sheathes it. The assassin calmly check the street to make sure no one was around, before crossing the street towards a parking lot. Pulling out his phone he dialed Cho's number while starting the car and pulling out of the parking lot.

"Mr. Pak, is the job done?"

"Man, not even a hi or hello or are you ok, I thought you cared Cho?" Feigning hurt at Cho's direct attitude.

" , I do not share your fondness jokes, now have you complete the job or not?" The irritation in the voice noticeable.

Chuckling, Johnny took on a serious look, "yea, the job is done, you can send one of your goons to confirm it. Now if you excuse me I have another job to do…. Also, don't forget to wire my cut bye." He hung the phone up before Cho had a chance to say anything more.

Pulling out a small flip book, and a pen. The Korean man crossed out a name, then circle another one underneath. Now that he finish this job, he could get back to what he really wanted to do. And that was carving those filthy Jjokbari and those damn mara greasers.

So caught in thoughts, the killer failed to notice three young adults, two look like they were Salvadoran and one could pass for a white boy, though he might have been mixed. They were all surrounding his car, with clear intentions of stealing it.

"Hey yo chink, this yo ride!" One of the Salvadorian teens called out. The Korean man stops in tracks upon hearing the slur. Raising his head, took a minute to register what was said and who said it. Taking a moment to consider the pro and cons of future actions, a decision was quickly made.

"Yes. Yes, it is. And why might you young gentlemen like to know that?" Johnny asks, his voice polite, and cheery. He presented himself as naive and benign. But if one were to look at his eyes, they would see the look of a crazed beast barely being held back.

"Pish, and if we are? Fuck you gonna do about it? Los Locos for life pinche puto!" The white looking teen called out while showing his tattoos. The other two chuckles, both showing off their own tattoos, like they were trophies they had won.

A cruel smile formed. "I see." Both of his hands were placed behind his back, hiding the serrated knife he carried.

"Well, this shall be fun!" It wasn't like his next target was going anywhere so he wouldn't be needed anytime soon...Besides, there always time for more fun...

* * *

What then is freedom? The power to live as one wishes.

Bolingbroke State Penitentiary

It was the middle of July and Southern San Andreas was experiencing the hottest summer ever recorded in the history of San Andreas, with highs reaching 150 degrees. However, despite the intense heat hammering down on anyone who was unfortunate enough to be outside in the blistering heat. That is saved for one lone individual that could be seen standing outside the gates of the notorious Bolingbroke Prison, the heat did little to affect his spirit. Said individual stood at 6 foot 9, built like a linebacker with shoulder length curly hair and a full beard. He had bronze skin and piercing brown eyes.

Joseph couldn't have felt any more excited in his life, than right now. Standing in front of the gates of Bolingbroke prison, the newly freed ex-convict couldn't be any happier in his life than right now.

Taking in a deep breath of arid, free air, he held it in. Slowly, letting the air out, Losefa let a smile spread across his face as he appreciated the openness and freedom that Blaine County had to offer. three years…three long years. That was how long he had to survive on the inside and wonder if he ever sees the light of the next day. As he stood there in the sweltering heat, waiting on his ride, he thought on the time he had spent in Bolingbroke and the other prisons.

Things were different when it came to the rules of the prison. In the streets, your allies were anyone who shared your flags color or set name, while your enemies were everyone else, and on occasion other sets who may have the same flag you. This changes once you're on the inside, on the inside you don't associate with anyone who wasn't of the same race, that meant that Ballas and Families had to a truce, so did the Aztecs and Marabuntas had a truce.

The Falepuipui was definitely not the same as the street. The things he saw and the things he had done just to get by...

"Fuck." Reminiscing about his stay in the joint only served to remind him of how he got there in the first place...and what happened there. Before the ex-con could go deeper into thought, the sound dirt and gravel being driving on caught his attention. A black Patriot pulled up on him, then came to a sudden halt, a Caucasian man, jump out of the truck, wearing a black suit jacket that revealed a white button up, a pair black slacks and a pair dark tinted shades that hid his eyes. He appeared to be in his forties, he was followed by another caucasian male, that looks younger than him. He too wore the exact same g man outfit the older male wore, except he didn't have on shades.

"Soo, you the fools who.." Cutting him off mid-sentence, the man with shades, motion for him to stop talking and then to get in the truck. Grudgingly going silent, he took a moment to analyze the situation that was before him then came to a quick decision. He best not test the water here and just comply with them for now. So walking over to the truck and entering it. Eventually, the truck started up and they began making their way to the road.

30 minutes later

Nothing had been said for half an hour and this was starting to make Losefa nervous. But before he could voice his discomforts, the older g-man spoke up. "From this point on you are to only nod "yes" or "no", and do not say a word unless you are asked to, understood!" Looking to the rearview mirror for David reaction. The only thing that shows his anger at being talked down was the slight narrowing of his eyes, otherwise, he nods his head for yes.

"Good, now before you get what you want, you'll give us what we want first, understand." Narrowing his eyes he slowly nodded his head again for yes, despite the anger that was building up inside of him.

"You see we're gonna require some heavy information and a lot of jobs that must be completed, because getting you out was not easy, especially considering what your charges were, and man oh man were they some hefty charges. Heck, I'm surprised we even got your out." Chuckling to him as if it was the funniest thing he ever thought of. No one else laughs.

"What you mean I gotta give you heavy information, that wasn't I agreed on," Losefa questioned, that didn't make any sense.

"Ho, you thought just get out easy peasy and there would be no repercussion to our agreements. Sorry, to burst your bubble buttercup, that not how this works." Tossing back a second folder, causing the Samoan ex-convict to fumble for it for a second before he got a grip on it.

"Oh but we can, buttercup. See, you sign your soul over to the wrong person, now you gonna do what we say when say it." His face was in full view of the rear mirror which showed off the crooked smile he had on his face. "And right now, I own your coconut ass, so start writing princess."

Looking down at the paper for a few minutes, he hesitantly grabbed the pen attached to the folder and began to write.

Faamalie Uso…

(Sorry Brother…)

* * *

 **Author Notes: Alright, here's the rewrite of the prologue. There were some things that were brought to my attention from my first published draft.**

 **First off, this going to be my version of GTA V, with my own characters along with names and a few references from stories like GTA: New Arcadia, GTA Online: Concrete Jungle. I highly recommend that yall really check out those stories. This story will be covering the lives and tribulations of four criminal making a life out of the cesspool that is LS. Also, this chapter is simply a taste/ look at what's to come later on in the story.**

 **Kernsfield is based on Bakersfield, California.**


End file.
